S 3537 
E165 
7 

313 
>py 1 



ec£ 



SOCRATES 



*c£ 



A PLAY 

TO DEVELOP A THOUGHT ON 

TRUTH 



Copyright Applied Fob 
All Rights Reserved 



C'CI.D 32647 



SOCRATES, A PLAY. 



To Develop a Thought 
on Truth 



by 
WILLIS G. SEARS 



PS^>537 
,E 1G5S7 



SOCRATES, A PLAY, 



To Develop a Thought on Truth. 



By Willis G. Sears. 



Place : Cell in the prison at Athens, with window overlooking 
the sea, and mountains, and part of the city. 

Time : That of Socrates, and the day of his death. 

Persons : Socrates, Criticles and officer of the guard in 
charge of Socrates : 



Present : Socrates and officer of the guard. 
Socrates : 

Come, guardsman, come with me to this window, 

Together let us look o'er yonder hills ; 

And then again, the valleys in between. 

Soldier, I know them all ; each and every one. 
Officer: 

Every day of my life, except when I have been absent in the 

wars, I have seen them, and they'll be there long after I am 

gone. If I were you, I'd think of more important things than 

those. 
Socrates : 

Important things ? What are important things *? 

Now let us look out o'er the tossing sea *? 

Again down through the city's teeming streets'? 

What wondrous sights are present to our view *? 

I never saw so clearly in the past. 

And never found my thought so clear as I do now. 

I asked my friends to go that I might rest ; 



And now I wish they were returned again. 

That is, I wish that Criticles were here. 

He's to me most as son is to his sire. 

Send word that he remain not long away. 

(Officer speaks to attendant, who goes for Criticles). 
Socrates (to himself) : 

I wonder if the ship's been sighted that I wait. 
(To Officer) : 

Soldier was't ever on thy mind, and heart, 

The burden of a boundless expectation'? 

Ever dream't of rising from the ranks, 

To the Captaincy of legions far away ? 

To fight where all the plans and articles of war 

Were blended with most perfect strategy? 

Where soldiers wounded, sick and sore, 

Were healed and given suitable reward? 
Officer: 

I am a plain, practical man, one who obeys orders, and with- 
out wasting time in idle dreams. 
Socrates : 

Ah, soldier ! Take some little time to dream. 

And then when thou awake, some little time, 

To live again, what was within thy dream ? 

Let's look again ; I count these visions now. 

There trees and vineyards dotted on the hills, 

Mark out the spots where men have tried to live, 

In some communion, as was intended them. 

There's quite a roughing on the old sea's face, 

And ships would sail with racing speed today. 

I almost think I see a sail out there, 

Where I've been looking. What see'st thou? 
Officer: 

It seems to be a sail. But perhaps that 'tis not. 

Or it may be a departing ship. 
Socrates : 

It little matters ; although I think 'tis a ship, 

And that it is the one I have been looking for. 

Soldier, dids't see that free bird fly just now 

Past my window ? At first I thought 'twas free. 

'Twas my mistake. 'Twas followed by a hawk. 

It coursed, now this way, and now that, 



Till over there beside that marble wall, 

It was o'ertook, and one cry was its last. 

Where are my friends'? Where's Criticles? 

I hardly thought he would be gone so long. 

(Enter Criticles.) 
Criticles : 

I could not go, nor yet could I return. 

And so I stood a little from the door. 
Socrates (to himself) : 

He also must have looked out o'er the sea. 
Socrates (to Criticles) : 

Feel not depressed. 'Tis but a fact of life. 

And no one knows until the time's gone by 

Whether a moment was fortuous or not. 

Just now a hawk within my window's view, 

Did kill and eat a scared and fleeing lark. 

Now who does know which fortune did attend? 

The pain hath gone, that caused the lark to cry, 

But where's the lark? Its body's in the hawk. 

Its bones and flesh are there. But not the lark. 

Its song is gone. Its circling in the air, 

Its daily bathing in the golden sun. 

But where's the lark? Where is the real lark? 

How with the hawk? Perhaps a swifter eagle 

Shall find and feed on it. Or worse. 

Perhaps he may be wounded in a fight, 

Caught by a man, and fastened in a cage. 

But let us not pursue a darksome thought. 

Come, my son, here by this shady window, 

With pleasant breeze to drink in from the sea, 

Let us converse together. Perhaps 'twill be our last. 
Officer : 

I will retire that you may talk more free. (Exit Officer.) 

Criticles : 

Oh, Socrates, friend of my youth and life, 

Who saved that life upon the battle's field, 

First of Athen's great philosophers, 

Tell me, thy pupil, the secret of thy heart? 

Thou hast refused to spill the hemlock from the cup, 

Which thou wer't importuned by all to do. 

And now time draws on apace, when thou must die. 



'Tis true, I know that, in thy honest heart 
There is no thought of guile, nor sacrilege 
Unto Athenia's Gods. Oh, Socrates, speak, 
And tell me of thy inmost thought, 
That I may know the reason of thy sacrifice. 
Here thou hast lived, and served the state, 
And by thy word fresh from great knowledge stored, 
Hath sent of thy philosophies to men. 
Athenians have Gods for every time and place. 
The land, the sea, and war, and fruitage, too. 
And everything that brings renown to Greece, 
That bears reward, and does confound her enemies, 
Each hath its God. And then, Oh Sorcrates, 
There are the unknown Gods. We have them, too. 
We know that thou't respectful unto them. 
I will not weigh with words solicitous, 
That thou recant, or, rather, join the thought, 
Of those who speak concretely for the State, 
But ere thou dost cross the waters of the Styx, 
Tell me thy reason, why, if martyrdom, 
Thou art impelled to drink the poison draught? 
Socrates : 

For many years, my Son, I gathered me 
In public place, Athenias choicest youth, 
And taught them of the things within their grasp 
So far as teaching was within my power. 
I have been true and faithful to the state, 
Nor yet spoke slightingly of God, or Greece. 
But Gods are not the creatures of the mind, 
And I've been true to my concluded thought. 
Yet, Son, know this, I've lived a dual part, 
With one part longing with a great desire, 
Nor could escape me, mine environment. 
And so I'll tell thee of mine inmost thought, 
And would even hadst thou not invited me. 
Oft times have I approached my final thought, 
To those I've met on highway or in field, 
In private place, or in the market's crowd, 
But none, it seems, could understand my mind. 
And some have looked as if I were insane, 
And some have thought I did attack the Gods ! 



And here's the result, Oh Criticles, 
Of thinking much, and honesty with thought. 
Why should not men hold love unto each other? 
And dwell in common harmony and love? 
Oh Criticles ! We pay the penalty, 
That's always paid, while groping in the dark, 
Of stumbling 'gainst some heavy, pointed thing, 
Placed there by others, and the resulting hurt. 
My best of thought denies we can make Gods, 
And lodge them in some special niche we carve, 
Charged with such quality we choose to give to them, 
Yet, my best of thought, says there is a God, 
Who loves all men alike, to whom is homage due, 
In whom is harmony and life complete. 
And my best thought says, Go where thou wilt, 
To the farthest man, and there salute thy brother. 
But all the peoples that we know yet of, 
Are full of war, or are enslaved by others. 
All is slavery. Owning, or being owned, a slave. 
The mind's enslavement is the worst of all ; 
For mental shackles, worn on mental flesh, 
Are thought as dimples, and as lightly worn ! 
And trod is he, who'd break the shackles' band. 
Oh, were men free, as the God would have them free, 
And solving problems, of their own, and His ! 
Criticles : 

But why obtrude a thought with which thou'rt filled, 
Upon the ears that do unwilling hear? 
Socrates : 

There's but one course falls to a teacher's lot, 
And in that course have I pursued my way. 
Philosophy compels with all the fact of Truth. 
Parents may deny those given life by them, 
But thoughts of Truth, may never be denied. 
I was n'er accused of cowardice in war, 
Although I slew with an unwilling hand; 
— Son, that slaying was before the light ! — 
And I cannot let unthinking tongues talk on, 
And kill my teaching, pointing at me, weak. 
But with my death, perhaps, Athenians 
May argue the cause, and knowing, value it. 



The precious days speed on with rapid pace ; 
Selfishness, and self-ambitious ends, 
The only goals, that urge our people on. 
Oh, Criticles, I've been so lone sometimes, 
That the gentle Xantippe, freely voicing forth. 
Hath brought with her a measure of relief. 
Criticles : 

Tell me, Oh Socrates, more of thy mind's pursuit. 
Is there not more, that thou wouldst leave behind 4 ? 

Socrates : 

Yes. 'Tis of the Truth. And of my search for it. 

That lies far back of all my questioning. 

Listen, my son, my pupil, Criticles, 

And ponder well, the word I leave with thee. 

Throughout the journey of a life I've sought for Truth. 

With service years I've searched for final things ; 

And all that time I've talked with learned men, 

And delved into the writ, and scrolled page — 

Where, like as from honey stored by long gone bees, 

Life is renewed to those of later age — 

That I have vital, cosmic thought, 

From first of reasoning, or its amplitude, 

And help receive for my appointed task. 

My aspiration was for Truth ; the abiding thing. 

For, find the Truth, and its full scope proclaim, 

Unto the groping, factious, elements of men, 

And bring them all to know the Truth, 

And what its portents are to living souls, 

And fill their sensibilities with the light 

That flows from Truth, then were there freedom, 

For greater Truth was never yet declared, 

For the uplifting of the human race, than 

Truth alone, is that which makes men free. 

And well do I recall the morning of my quest. 

— A little tot was my pupil, Criticles, then ! — 

How sure was I that Truth was nearly mine. 

And equal sure none other knew the Truth, 

Ev'n in its fullness, as 'twas known to me. 

And, in that searching for the higher things, 

How many others came into my path*? 



They walked not always, hand in hand with me, 

Nor always shoulders touched, nor was there sympathy. 

Yet we, each one, were searching for the Truth, 

And nearly all were sure some Truth was theirs. 

Yet we, each one, did push, and haul, and glared 

Upon each other as we passed and searched ; 

And imprecations hurled we at each others' heads ; 

And each declared none other knew the Truth; 

And some flew at the others in their wrath, 

Because such others knew not of the Truth, 

As known to those who did such violence. 

Now later, in the after-time of search, 

Some few commenced to show more sympathy, 

Each for the others, who desired Truth. 

And when they did compare their inner thought, 

Each with the inner thought the others held, 

Each was surprised to know the other ones 

Were as intense in searching for the truth 

As he himself with all his earnestness. 

Then light appeared more constant to such ones, 

And so much more, such ones did know of Truth. 

And had I but that time for search again, 

And those to meet upon our common way, 

How much of Truth then could all of us know, 

Would we but search in bonds of sympathy, 

And hold to each the light we each would find, 

And cherish all, as from the source of Truth. 

For, if men perfectly do come to know of Truth, 

Will it not be by sympathy, of those who seek, 

Each for his fellows, as they search for Truth? 

And so I sought for Truth, and lived for Truth. 

And all the thoughts of all the other men, 

Whereat their burden was akin to mine, 

I did array, with totaled sum, or else subtract result, 

According to my mind ; but without final force. 

Yet this appeared, and still abides with me : 

Unto each one there is something of Truth, 

Some break of dawn, some flashes of the light, 

Even if there be rays that dazzle men, 

And shadows cast, that sometimes lead astray. 



And some whereat are thereby lead astray. 

And some who thus are lost, and shadow bound, 

With light in some degree on every side. 

And some of these become so used to shades, 

They know not of a brighter atmosphere, 

But think they're in the blazed light of Truth ; 

That all beside, is dark within the false. 

And sometimes, I seemed to know the light, 

The Truth of something in my vision's range, 

But later, to see a brighter glow, when former view 

Did vanish, as does dew on sun-kissed hills at morn. 

And then, somewhat, I changed my quest for Truth. 

For Truth, I found, abounded everywhere. 

Till I believe with all mine any-thought, 

That none should say, under the ranks of men : 

"Here is all Truth," or "There all error lies," 

But in humility, and mind to questioning. 

For 'tis a solemn thing, with moment charge, 

To lodge within the plastic minds of men, 

As of a Truth, that which is thought the Truth, 

But later doubted, and not known as Truth. 

For such placed things have set man 'gainst man, 

Battled millions 'gainst like numbered ones, 

And hardened hearts, by Nature filled with love, 

So that a flint, were soft as breath of May, 

Compared with what such hardened hearts become. 

I know not what the final Truth shall be ; 

I know not how such Truth shall come to men. 

But this I think I know : In the coming quest 

For light, which is the Truth, there'll be a time, 

When each shall search, not by himself alone, 

But with the help of all his fellow men, 

And much defer unto the light his fellows have ; 

Then shall Truth, manifest itself — Finality. 

But this, I more than think ; I know ; 

Of this, I feel assurance, more than doubly sure : 

That Truth, itself, was never yet cast down, 

So that it groveled in an ethic dust, 

Nor raised above the level of its sphere ; 

But always, everywhere, where it relation held, 

10 



Did, as some stratum of the granite hills, 

Maintain its poise. If otherwise then 'twere not Truth. 

Not known, alway, nor clear to those called men, 
Yet some there be, the mirrors of whose souls, 
Are yet so truly polished, to that degree, 
They do receive some ample rays of light, 
From the high source and very fount of Truth, 
That pass unmarked, the glass of other men. 

But what is Truth? Its office unto men? 

And whence its source? And what its destiny? 

Nay ! The mirrors of my very-self art rough, 

And not as yet, of that high quality, 

That doth receive, and hold such rays of light! 

Yet there is truth ! And from the deepest recess 

Of each inner-self goes forth the cry, 

Compelled by longings of the human heart, 

Not always clarion, nor with constancy, 

Yet sometime, unto the Source of Life and Hope, 

"O Thou, whence, where, whate'er Thou art, 

Help me, Thy child, to know the Truth!" 

Nor can one go to star-lit fields at night, 

Nor deep into the wide extended groves, 

With all life's burdens pressing on his brow, 

Except it be a witness to declare, alone, 

Yet, to that of the farthest universe, 

"There is the Truth— and God !" 

My final word, is, speed the search for Truth. 
With perfect mind, in all tranquility. 
Nor disdain that, 'tho spoke by any man, 
Because, my son, it may be of the Truth; 
It may be, that 'tis word sent from the God ! 

(Enter officer, who remains standing till the end). 
Officer: 

Oh, Socrates, the State directs that Its decree 
In the matter of thy sentence, be carried out. 
I here present the hemlock, and inquire, 
Whether thou'lt drink — from thine own hand? 

11 



J-cls 20 \m 



Socrates : 

Never should man die as of his own desire. 

And never should one cause another's death. 

And never should a man deny the State. 

Therefore as decree hath passed that I must die. 

Even so do I bow down to that decree, 

And my hand act to satisfy the law, 

So that thy hand shall not offend The God ! 

First, let me look out at the evening sun, 

And see its golden blending with the blue ; 

And, too, to note if 'twas the ship we saw afar, 

That's given date to my conclusion here. 

(Socrates arises, steps to the window and looks out for a little 
while, then turns smilingly to Criticles.) 
Socrates : 

And now, my son, thou'rt bid with cheer good-bye, 

Because the ship's returned. Pass me the cup, 

And I, upon this couch, thy hand in mine, 

Shalt rest awhile, and then pursue my way. 

(Socrates takes the cup from the officer, drinks the poison, 
lies down and soon dies. His eyes are closed by Criticles, who 
weeps.) 
Criticles : 

I wonder why, when all men wish for Truth, 

And none desire that of its opposite, 

That there should be, here in this land of Greece, 

So little love, for him who loved all Greece, 

And whose affections were for all the world. 

The greatest mind and heart of dwellers of the earth, 

Dies meanly, and as should a common enemy. 

I do not understand, unless it be, a step 

That must be trod, upon the road to Truth. 



*^d 




12 




015 873 835 



